Ch. 11: Darkness has no limits
Back to Arheled Four days passed as they travelled down the steep and endless honeycomb of tunnels underneath Tartarus. Sometimes it was too steep to walk, and then Forest would paint another hovercar and unpaint it when it was no longer needed. Little was spoken. The pervasive gloom of the dark world weighed their hearts like lead. The air was foul and filled with evil fumes; but they barely noticed this, protected by the virtue of the cloaks. There was no light save what Lara gave out, dying away before and behind; and outside it, waiting emptiness, a living void. Then they would stop and eat, and walk on further, until at last Ronnie’s watch told him evening had come in the world they had known, and Lara would go dark and the void closed over them, and they could rest. How Ronnie knew when to get up was anybody’s guess, but he always seemed able to tell when seven hours had passed, and when he woke Lara up and they could see his watch, he was usually right. Their peculiar fellowship seemed less and less a unit, despite their now-habitual deference to Ronnie’s leadership, as the mounting weariness pressed on them all and the dreaded Hallow’s Eve weighed on their minds with its’ ever-swifter approach. Brooke, Lara and Travel seemed to condense into a clique, tighter every day. Bell was more or less outside it, admitted as a girl and yet unwelcome because of her youth. Ronnie and Forest on the outskirts were disregarded, save for Ronnie’s leadership and orders which they listlessly obeyed; they were males, aliens and potential foes, to be silently resisted and rebelled against. The two boys in response formed another unit, unspeaking, seldom glancing at each other yet with a grim sense of brothers. Every night Forest was troubled with dreams. He spoke of them to Ronnie by tapping his arm and meeting his eyes; he felt no desire to make sound. Nor to give the women any new weapons in their artillery. Ronnie told them sometimes, if he judged it needful; but the rest he kept to himself. And they were queer dreams indeed. He would see his mother and many others asleep, the Wild Man standing in brooding silence over them and sometimes talking bitterly to no one; or he would see Wayham Lane on a barnacle-eaten ship, crouched and fearful, with a horrible presence of black shadow singing dreadful words of darkness triumphant. He saw dragons prowling around the house of the Lanes, and his father blazing brighter than the sun. In the world outside it was growing steadily colder. Every time they came to a passage that went more sharply down, they took it. It was never dark, now: the stone around them glowed with heat, and sometimes drops of molten rock would fall from the ceiling. On what Ronnie calculated was the 23rd of October, they began to enter the true infernos. As they drew farther below the coldness of Tartarus, it had grown steadily warmer, until sweat beaded constantly and Lara had to radiate coolness as well as light, and shield them with a coolness-spell when they stopped for sleep. But now the rock was so hot it glowed a faint but perceptible hue, and only their enchanted shoes protected them from the scorching air and floor. At last they came into a long and snakelike shaft, which had no side passages, and this led in worming zigzags too steep for feet. They boarded Forest’s hovercar—now with a bubble over it and heatproof abilities—and cruised down the ever brighter tunnel. Red light wavered on the walls. At last they came out into the sort of places they had dreaded. Rivers of lava streamed ponderously past, glowing red and hot orange and angry yellow. Falls of glopping flame poured steadily from many fissures to feed them. Winding lanes of crust and even bridges of it snaked about between the streams and pools. There seemed no end to the lava seas. Sometimes the roof met them; sometimes it rose. “But there has to be a way.” Ronnie said. “I suppose you don’t know that the Earth’s outer core is liquid?” said Lara with heavy irony. “I bet we’re standing on the surface of it.” Travel cried out. “Watch out! Someone just teleported in here.” “How do you know?” said Brooke. “I teleport, okay? I can feel it when somebody else does it nearby.” '' “You have come to the last end, Children of the Road.” '' The scorching voice seemed to come from every direction, mingled with the thick bubbling and gurgled thunder of the lava dens. “The Road resides within us.” said Ronnie. “If we find no way, a way will we make.” '' “And how will you do that, O Hill of the Road? The lava will melt all the cold she can put into it. Will you affine with stone, as Brooke does with water? Will you call to the lava, and have it politely step aside? Even the dragons must teleport through here.” '' Lara turned blue in an instant. Pure cold radiated from her hands. And across that entire chamber all the lava turned instantly into stone. Frost began to condense on the cooled rock. Breath came like smoke. “There he is.” she said. “I’ve got him.” said Brooke. Cords of solid water lifted into view a white dragon, with wings of sea-green, green fire belching from him and already boiling the water. “A fire-dragon.” sniffed Lara. “How pathetically easy.” “Watch him!” shouted Ronnie “He’s the oldest of the dragon-born! He’s—“ The white dragon vanished. And reappeared beside Brooke. “—Kevin.” finished Ronnie. The dragon teleported out of their circle, Bell in his grasp. “How well you guess.” he smiled. “It so happens you are right.” “Kevin??” Brooke said in a voice as if she could not breathe. “Hello, my dear.” Kevin smiled, a hideous dragon’s smile. “And no, Lara, don’t even think about quenching me. You see, I know you people. You would never risk one of your own. You are weak. She is easily spared, for she has no power unless she is in the Churches. But yet you will not make a sacrifice, letting her die that I may be killed. For if any of you so much as thinks about using your powers—especially against me—little Ding-dong gets to go swimming.” “Her shoes can tread lava!” shouted Travel. Brooke was clutching her stomach, her eyes tormented. “Oh, I know they are enchanted,” said the dragon, “but are they like the Dragon-helm of Dor-lomin? Do they defend the wearer from fire, though he be naked elsewhither? I don’t really think you want to find out. I have a dragon’s power. I can teleport her wherever I please.” He snickered. “Why, River-babe, darling, you seem a little upset. Thought I was gone, did you? No dragon ever really dies. Our Father always finds us. Such a tender, caring father he is. No peace of the end for us. Always, always, the wheel of time, the mournful cycle of reincarnation. No sense wasting a dragon-born, you know.” Bell’s stained wrists glowed green. Shock showed in Kevin’s eyes, even as each eye flew up in different directions, accompanied by fragments of head. Springing out of his embrace beams of green energy jutted from her wrists, dicing apart the convulsing corpse. “Oh no! Not when she’s so close to him!” shouted Ronnie. Travel’s power grabbed Bell in mid-scream and transported her. Bell appeared, still screaming. She was drenched with dragon-blood; it had soaked her clothes as if she had swum in it. Already it was corroding them. But her skin seemed to drink the dark substance like paint, and despite Brooke’s hasty scouring of Bell with water-jets, her flesh remained an angry red as if sunburned. She was in great pain. She howled and moaned continuously, and it took the full strength of the others to hold her still. “What do we do? What do we do?” Brooke babbled. “Ronnie,” said Travel, looking up with tears in her eyes, “you know all the old tales. What happens when you bathe in dragon’s blood?” Forest was already spreading the essence of raspberry over his sister. “That will do no good, Forest.” said Ronnie in a hurried voice. “First take away her pain. White willow. Now.” A white mist came from Forest’s hands. Bell’s spasms stopped and she uttered a long sigh. Forest followed up with opium and poppyseed, until his sister slumbered peacefully, her brows still knotted with the pain. “Will.” she be all right? '' he said brokenly. “There is no cure for dragon’s blood.” said Ronnie softly. “Strange things happen in the tales. Fafnir’s blood, in the German version of the Sigurd legend, gave him invulnerability when he bathed in it; save for where a leaf stuck to his skin. Turin was merely burned; he never lived long enough to find out if Glaurung’s blood gave power. I’ve heard it mentioned as an elixir of immortality. But I think the price of pain too great to pay.” He bent over her, smoothing her curls. “Power or pain, we will know when she wakes. I will carry her.” “Ronnie,” said Travel in a strained voice, “another one’s coming.” “To the cave-end!” Ronnie barked. They vanished, even as a green dragon appeared almost on top of where they’d been. He gave a disgusted snort and vanished again. The company appeared on an island of stone. A great lake of bubbling lava spread around them. The molten rock had eaten away at the base until the edges overhung like a toadstod; how much stem was underneath, none cared to guess. “This is the cave’s end?” said Ronnie dryly. “I thought it was!” defended Travel. “You feel anyone teleporting in?” “He vanished again, but I don’t feel him now.” “He’s flying.” muttered Ronnie. “In fact, there he is.” The instant they sighted him, the dragon vanished. Looking all around, no one saw the young man who suddenly appeared in their midst. “Hey, kid sis.” breathed a voice in Brooke’s ear. She whirled around, to find herself face to face with her dead brother. ''“Ben??” she gasped. His fist connected with her head and they both vanished. “I have just about had it with dragons popping off with us.” fumed Travel. Ronnie seized her arm and both of them vanished. Brooke and her brother appeared on a high ledge over a river of slow fire. The heat smote them. Bean smiled dreadfully. “Wake up, sis.” he sneered. “I want you to know that it is me that is enjoying you. I want to feel your disgust. And then,” he glanced down below, “we’ll see if you can quench lava.” “I’ll kill you if you touch me, big bro.” Brooke gasped. “You’re too woozy to do more than soak me.” her brother laughed. Water vomited from him, holding her like steel. He stretched forth his hands to caress her, the water flexing at his touch. All his hands met was water. He frowned, bewildered. A shape of water stood before him, a smile upon her transparent features, even as she merged with his bonds and shot down into his throat. “Aaaggglugggg!!” he choked. Before he could shift shape to dragon or eject her substance from him, his body began to split apart. A horrible expression came over him. Slowly his flesh sealed back together. Reaching into his mouth he seized her substance and pulled, hand over hand, reeling her out of him. Black magic held her bound. He pulled her out of him and held her up, a ball of water writhing in his grasp. “Enjoy your hot tub.” he whispered, and his power plunged her mercilessly toward the lava. Travel and Brooke appeared behind him. Travel and the ball of water glowed blue. The power of the Road fought with the power of black magic. The ball hovered in midair, unable to descend: the two forces were equal. Then the fist of Ronnie met the head of Ben. His grip broke. Travel and the Brooke-water vanished. And Ben and Ronnie were left, facing each other alone. “Well, well, bro.” said Ben. “You’re getting good. But I’m getting better.” “And you think that dragon-spell can overcome the Hill of the Road?” snarled Ronnie. '' “Look upon my eyes, and gaze into their depths!” '' Travel, reappearing, was in time to see Ben’s stiff corpse, the face frozen into an expression of unutterable horror, topple slowly from the ledge and burst into flame even as the lava pulled it down. They reappeared to find the island was no longer there. It was ten feet downstream, floating away. With a sickening jolt of panic they felt themselves fall feetfirst into the liquid fire. Their feet and lower legs were intolerably hot, but they were not dead. They opened their eyes to find themselves embedded to the calves in a small island of cooled rock: their shoes had indeed defended them from lava. “What did this?” said Travel. “You mean who.” said Lara, and pointed. There, hovering on brooms, were two young witches, a voluptuous brunette with short hair, and a girl with longer blond hair. Julian and Delilah. Giggling like kids they pointed their wands. Their magic, visible now like green witchfire, sprang against the Children of the Road. “So far the power of the Church is holding them off.” said Lara. “But that’s why I haven’t been able to freeze the cave.” “Then maybe it’s time to go down.” said Ronnie. Lara’s hands began to seethe with cold, but Ronnie shook his head. “Not you. Him.” As Lara watched in disbelief, Forest moved to the front. “Oh, it’s that little kid Forest from down the street! How cu-ute!” Delilah whooped, soaring to the ceiling. “And he’s got a paintbrush! Oh, I’m so scared, Mommie take me home.” taunted Julian. Green fire sprang from Forest’s paintbrush. “You should be.” he said. The brush whirled like pinwheels of lightning. A cage of woven crucifixes sprang into being around the witches, and inside them were dense nets of holly, constricting slowly inward, thorns long as spines. The witches screamed in pain, both physical and spiritual, as holy thorns ground into their flesh. “Let them fry there awhile.” he said. He stabbed the paintbrush down. The sea of fire turned instantly to stone. In blindingly swift strokes he painted a bottomless hole, and the island broke loose and transformed into another of his famous hovercars. Impressed despite themselves, the girls strapped in. Bell still slumbered. They descended for mile after mile, falling at a speed that made their hair stream upward, the shaft closing and melting behind them, Forest’s paintbrush moving endlessly. Lara was aiding him with her Cold, freezing the lava ahead into stone. Five times they stopped to sleep, Forest’s brush painting an unbreakable heatproof shell around them. Whether they had drifted in the heavy currents of convection far within the Outer Core, they did not know, they could not help it if they had. On the third night Forest dreamed of cold bitter rain in the bare forests, only beech and oak still keeping leaf, and then the rain became wet snow, half an inch deep upon the fallen leaves. On the twenty-first day of their journey, Oct. 28th, they came out into winding tunnels. The tunnel sides were not rock at all, but a squirming mass of half-melted stone kept back by some terrible power; whether command or spell they did not know. Bell was awake now and claimed to feel fine, but her skin was still an ugly sunburn and Ronnie wasn’t so sure. The hours that followed became a long running nightmare. Dragons came at them without any warning save Travel’s instincts, and fighting and parrying and eluding began to run together in their minds. Forest took out the Gravity Dragon by painting him apart; he had absorbed everyone’s powers and Ronnie could not find his eyes due to them absorbing light. Ice-dragons found themselves outmatched. Others were Fire and easily quenched. Some Travel teleported in half. Once they even met a Lightning Dragon, whom Brooke beat easily by diverting his bolts with water-streams and short-circuiting him. Neither Ronnie nor anyone else knew how many hours they had battled—days, rather—snatching naps in lulls in combat, until Travel would feel them teleporting in her sleep and wake up shouting and the whole thing begin again. Sometimes they met witches, but when the witches found none of their magic would bite and they were usually faced by oceans of water and abysmal colds, they stopped even trying. “It’s snowing in Winsted.” said Forest to Bell. “You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s still October!” “Everything was white.” said Forest with shining eyes. “Snow poured down like rain. There was a raw feel in the air, like December. It stuck to the leaves. The trees bent. I heard limbs breaking every other minute. Gold-green beech leaves and brown-green oaks were pale and limp under the snow. There was 15 inches when it was done, and power was out as bad as Irene. It’s winter-cold up there.” “That is so freakin’ weird!” crowed Bell. “Oh boy, I hope we get back before it melts!” “The earth grows cold at the presence of Morgoth.” said Ronnie. “What day is it?” Ronnie threw up his hands. “God knows.” “Indeed He does, but He is not going to answer your cries.” The six stopped dead. The Witch of Winchester stood before them. She was short and dumpy, greyish-red hair flowing witchlike around her, her eyes glinting strangely behind her glasses. She wore a Colonial dress, homespun and rough, and over it a huge black hooded mantle. In her hand she held aloft a twisted cane of black laurel. “Who are you?” said Lara. “I am Filley.” the Witch answered. “I have no Christian name. I come from ancient legends in the oldest town anecdotes. I am the Witch of Winchester.” Darkness fell upon the glowing cave. The Children of the Road wilted with the sheer weight of the malice that radiated from that staff. “You have faced children up to now, half-trained teenagers and book clubs of little old ladies, unfit for true warfare. But I, I am old, and I am stronger than any of them. The Church protects you, little Children; but how strong is the Church?” She thrust forth the laurel staff. As if smitten by a bomb the Children of the Road toppled to the ground, bent by the blast of the evil that was in her. Horror crashed over them. Darkness was in mind as well as eye. Ronnie Wendy and Lara Midwinter struggled to their hands and knees. White and red fire flickered in their eyes; their hands, reaching to their necks, clutched like shields of power the scapulars they wore underneath: and in those sacramentals was vested the power of the Catholic Church, and the prayers of the Church poured into them. Slowly they staggered upright, stooping against the wind of horror, right hands outthrust, blue light burning where their palms met the black wind. The Witch of Winchester snarled with sheer fury. Slowly the two Catholic Children of the Road forced their way forward, step after bitter step, divine anger in their hearts. As they grew closer the Witch began to back up. Black power crackled and flared from the staff. There was panic in her black eyes. She gave back, step after step, as they pushed forward, bent no longer, white and red fire blazing in their eyes. Then with a black implosion the Witch of Winchester vanished. They made their way on, down the steep and winding way of ancient might. Doughy rock squished and swirled against the command that kept at bay the full weight of the Earth. “Who made this?” Brooke said once. “Guardians.” Ronnie answered. “I see golden power flickering around us, like beams stretched across the tunnel. This was recently redone. Not more than five years ago, if I’m not wrong.” “Who are…?” “I don’t know.” said Ronnie. “They Guard. They are gone now, for there is nothing of their charge. But the walls remain.” As they tramped wearily down the burning halls, all of them scarred with burns and wounds that had been painted whole by Forest and healed with raspberry, they saw ahead of them a figure dressed like a nurse in dirty white. Her hair had once been tied back, but much of it was escaped, hanging wild and tangled about her face. She had arched brows, with a sort of painful lift in them. Her eyes were sickening green. Ghost-green. “The Witch in White!” roared Ronnie. Shouting out sacred names perverted to magic uses, the Witch in White hurled spells at them. Ronnie ignored them. His eyes met hers, and her curses died; power strove against magic, and the Witch in White toppled, only kept alive by the ghost that was in her, who was already dead and knew her own damnation. As they went on further, they saw ahead of them a majestic figure barring the tunnel. In that hall of violent reds and ochers he shone a pale wan green, eerie and awful. And he had no head. “The way is shut.” the ghost said in his hollow voice. “Who holds the way?” Ronnie demanded harshly. “The dead hold it. The damned keep it. We bar the Road.” Behind him there emerged into visibility a pale host, a great army of pale warriors that filled the caves. A flame was in their eyes, and the weapons in their hands burned with a ghastly light. Streaming past the King of the Dead they fell upon the Children of the Road. “Fight them, and fear not!” Ronnie’s voice rang. “They are no ghosts. They are not dead!” The warriors charged, howling like a thousand banshee sirens. Walls of stone appeared as Forest whirled his brush. Ice exploded attacker after attacker. Like a water-whirlwind Brooke rotated through the throng, herself water, her arms hard blades, shattering swords and slicing bodies. Beams of white and green and violet zapped about from the weapons of the Stars. Though their swords were made in Hell and could be broken by no mortal power, the strength of the Church and the power of the Road was in the Six. “These are the damned reincarnate; they are nothing!” Ronnie roared as his wrist-tattoos sent swirling loops of deadly purple among the army. The last dead warrior fell. “It is their King whom we battle!” The King of the Dead, bereft of his army, gave a hollow laugh. Swiftly he charged, shooting forward like a green wind, his ghostly blade swinging. The powers of the Six passed through him without effect. Bell leaped forward as the sword descended, catching it upon her upraised hand. The phantom blade splintered. The ghost collided with her and staggered backward. “What power is in your skin that allows no substance material or spiritual to pass it?” cried the King of the Dead. Bell caught him in her arms. The ghost could not pass through her, nor escape her grip. “Dragon’s blood.” she said. Ronnie advanced with his scapular lifted. At the approach of the sancitified cloth the ghost shivered in pain. “Now will I send you to your place.” Ronnie said. “Please,” whispered the ghost, “spare me. Do not lay the holy cloth around my neck. If you do my head will never return to me.” “If you are dead, you have chosen. If you are saved, why do you fight us? If you are damned, why show you mercy?” “I will leave the field if I am spared. I will forsake Winsted. I will not walk against the North in the last hour.” The eyes of Ronnie began to glow red. “You are of the Foes.” he said inexorably. “I see in you damnation, and in your heart lying. In the Name of the Lord, Jesus the Christ, do I lay the holy cloth upon you, and implore Him to send you to your place where you will trouble us no more.” The scapular flamed red as it settled upon the ghostly shoulders. With a wail as deep as the bottom of the earth, the King of the Dead faded away. Down and still down they hurried. They were weary, incredibly weary. The journey seemed unending. When would they reach the bottom, and in these burning caves, how would they find that one chamber? What if this network of tunnels was a decoy, designed to lead them far astray to come too late, drawing them on by minimal opposition? Travel’s head, already aching from her continuous teleporting, throbbed heavily. She wanted to simply lie down, pillowed on the scorching stone, and never have to rise. '' That’s it, little girl, that’s the way to go. '' Lara’s heart was as leaden and numb as the cold she commanded. The suffocating heat, kept to bearable temperature by their enchanted cloaks, still oppressed her mind. Her sister’s face was only a pale shadow in her thoughts, and even when she tried it was hard to put features on it. The endless labor of the descent was exhausting her mind, no less than her body. Behind her Bell and Brooke plodded, until Travel had a line of sight ahead of her and teleported them all in mid-step, and their feet descended unnoticing and they plodded on, ignoring the change of scene, their heads drooping. Forest had a curious glazed look in his eyes, as though his strange mind was in some far remote country and divorced from the angry splendour of their surroundings. Ronnie in front walked bent, arms swinging limply, a dull stupor in his gaze. '' Yes, you are right, this passage has no end and it continues for ever… '' “We must sleep.” Lara said, her hoarse voice breaking the long silence. They paused to drink from their ever-full bottles; somehow these always remained pure and cold, and drinking them cleared their heads for a little. “We slept only six hours ago.” Ronnie croaked. On they went, on and on. The angry light, the endless heat, dry and shrivelling like a desert day even with the protection of their cloaks, the foul queer smell of fumes given by no organic thing but by the rot and breakdown of the rock itself, rendered only breathable by the garments of Arheled; weighed upon mind and heart. To keep on was a task that was growing unbearable. '' Lie down, little ones; sleep and rest, let yourselves succumb, for there is no end and there is no other existence. '' The shaft constricted. So steep was it now they often used the hovercar to travel, and below lay only a blinding yellow-whiteness. The passage twisted like a worm, and the spells holding it open, Ronnie told them, were no longer those of Guardians, but of Dragons. All around them was blinding light. Then suddenly the shaft grew gentler, and emerged into a chamber of flame. White lava boiled and churned beneath them. In the midst rose an island of black stone, unmelted, even untouched. And from the hole in its’ crown were pouring swarms of foes. There were dragons of every shape and size. There were witches on their brooms, armed with wands. Elemental powers and dragon-magic and witchfire thundered against them like a horrid multihued gale. Swirling and lancing through it like lightning were the beams and blades of the weapons in their wrists, and the blast of their own powers, of cold and water, of plant-mist and paintbrush. They hewed their way down. Suddenly Travel took them all in a single flash to the lip of the hole in the black island. The dragons, caught off guard, milled in confusion. “This is the way.” said Ronnie. “This is the antechamber. We are almost there!” A current of energy coursed through them at the realization. Their goal was in sight. Travel teleported them here, there, everywhere as they shot down the shaft, throwing the dragons into disarray. Beneath was a ragged room of black and jutting rock like a fire-gutted house; and at the far end, a brilliant white glow, and against it, several tall thrones like dark pillars. A madness of fury upon them, they blasted down witch after witch and dragon after dragon, cut their way down the chamber and hurried into the hall of the Seven Thrones. And instantly they were held suspended. “Well, sons of the Road,” said a voice that they hated more than anything on earth. Cornello stepped down from the side of the chamber. “The ones I originally needed. And in the end you come here none the less, of your own free will.” We come here to destroy you and to set free the ones you have taken! ''said the '' ''thought of Ronnie. “You are making an excellent start.” laughed Cornello. Ronnie’s heart drooped, though his suspended head could not move. ''A bargain, his thought said. “Indeed?” the bald man said, arching one eyebrow. “So you would offer yourselves, on the assumption I would then let the others go. So noble of you. But do you speak for the others? Or even for yourself? In any case, I need you not. Look for yourselves: I have what I need!” With a groan the seven pillared thrones around the column of light at the bottom of the world upon the heart of the Earth, swivelled round to face them. They were close enough to see and recognize the seven people sitting bound into the thrones, long robes flowing down the rock like impossible bodies; and at the sight despair and helpless rage fell upon them. A somewhat heavy but good-looking young woman robed in fresh green, Travel knew as Cypress. A slim fair girl with dark-gold hair and round cheeks, robed in lovely lavender: both Lara and Ronnie recognized as Lilac. There was Mary Rogers, large-set and rather pretty, robed in pale yellow; Ralph, his shaved head now showing a short orange crop, was in deep red: Ronnie alone knew them. All of them recognized Nerissa, the round-featured pretty librarian in Wicca: she wore blue. The woman on the farthest throne with the misty fair features and the deep green robes, Forest and Ronnie knew as the first Green Lady, the Star Maricrondo. But it was the last throne that filled Ronnie with such anguish he could feel splintering pains in his chest, only kept from breaking by the suspended condition he was held in: for it was Carlee, his vanished love, and she was all in gold and blue, and she was most beautiful of them all. “In the black wind the stars shall die, and still on gold here let them lie, until the Dark Lord lifts his hand above dead sea and withered land. Did you think that Bombadil rendered those words meaningless, or that banishment made that prophecy void? It is one that even Christ supports: the moon shall be darkened, and the stars fall from heaven; and their powers will be moved. For we are stronger than they. We are greater than we were. Damned uncounted cross the shores from swarming abyss. Two-thirds of the spirits fell not; but how many thirds of the souls of men have come into our maw? The Saints are beleaguered. The Saved are few. The Elect crumble daily. And we, we grow mighty, for the Earth is ours.” He vanished, appearing high up in the roof, and his voice rang down like the voice of Hell. “When the horn is sounded it will not be Gabriel’s. It will be that of Gjaller, and he will blow it for the Lord. And the dead shall rise up, and the sea will give up its’ dead, and even from heaven the dead will come down, summoned to their bodies. And when they do, they will come before the Lord, and they will look into His face and they will scream, for while they lazed around on their golden clouds and strummed their little harps, they thought they had won and they were safe; but they were wrong. For the Lord upon the Throne will have a face of black.” He suddenly was next to them, thrusting his huge smiling face almost into theirs. “He will summon all the dead, and all the living will think that they have died, for there where standing God should be will be instead the Mighty One, the Lord of All presiding over a Black Resurrection under ruined skies upon the last evening. And then over dead and live alike will close the night of naught, and only dead will reign. Man kenuva métim’ andúne?” '' Light flamed in the motionless eyes of the Children. “You are suspended in Time.” Cornello informed them, laughter behind his voice. “Your powers would take so long to get to me, it would be weeks. Prayers, of course…we have learned, in the long ages of our defeat, how to endure pain. Your Church does not bother us. We are stronger than Her. We do not fear the Great Hallows who have placed our night under their power. We are greater than they. “Do you know what day it is, or have you lost your reckoning in your wanderings? It is Samhain Night. Before the Hallows interfered, we could come out of the earth on that night, all the ''venda who we have enlightened, who grew tired of their enchanted caverns. We can do so again. For this is indeed our hour.” He turned to the thrones, spreading wide his hands. “So let us watch the show!” The footsteps of Cornello sounded slowly and solemnly in the ears of Ronnie. Doom. Doom. His eyes saw little, and what he noticed was dim and barely registered. Black sorrow shook his heart with shedless tears. Beside him tears of fire rolled from the glittering eyes of Lara. They had come all this way, and endured so long, and fought so hard, and all for naught. Doom. Vain, in vain was all their toil, all their battle; what did it matter if you sided with the Gods, when they were doomed to lose? Why bother to fight on at all? Let the Lord of Chaos reign; for he will in any event. Thus as Ronnie and Lara wept for lover and sister, the others watched, dismay and helplessness holding them thrall. They watched Cornello cross the chamber floor, the thrones swivelling around until they all faced the fountain of light that beat up from the Heart of the Earth. Facing it the magician that had once been a man raised his hands. Purple robes writ in gold with signs of magic appeared on his shoulders, and a long steeple hat on his head. From every side the Enemies gathered slowly around, witches and dragons, including dragons they recognized as ones they’d killed, Julian and Delilah covered with half-healed wounds, a woman in dirty white, another in dark with a black hooded mantle. Slowly they began to stamp, and as they stamped in unison a wild awful chant began to rise. “Dearly beloved,” the gigantic voice of the Father of Dragons rose above the chanting, “upon this our sacred night to we prepare to celebrate these mysteries, and welcome back to life Him who died and will rise again, the One and the All, the true Christ betrayed for ages, the One who Arises in Might.” '' “Aii-yai, yai, yai-ro yai.”'' wailed the stamping crowd. “We have harnessed to our power the Fountain of the Guardians upon the Fortress of Fire that once was; we have harnessed into it every force that guides the earth; we have harvested the tectonic energy, the geothermal power, the might of gravity, the strength of light. We have bound into this column the essence of the Elements; we have bent all natural forces to our indomitable will. Take, O Lord, of this, we pray!” “Aii-yai, yai, yai-ro yai.” wailed the Enemies. The light of the column dimmed and it wavered, and the chamber fell into shadow. “We have opened the graves and garnered the dead; on the Day of the Dead they have come to our call. Receive, O Lord, of them, we pray!” “Aii-yai, yai, yai-ro yai.” chanted the crowd. The eyes of Forest saw that their ranks were increased: fell spectres and ghosts stalked past the living to converge upon the dimming fountain; and like a whirlpool it sucked them in. “Blood of Christ and Blood of God, Flesh of Christ I hold to you!” shouted the demonic priest. In furious horror that jolted them from their despair Ronnie and Lara, the only Catholics, saw him hold two full Chalices. From one leaped up a red light, from the other a white: he had stolen from unworthy priests the consecrated Wine and Hosts, in which was present Christ Himself. He would not act, they realized. Not even to save Himself from desecration would He defy His own rules. Lara would have sagged if she had been able to move. Red tears fell from Ronnie’s eyes, floating timelessly before him. The Sacred Species were thrown at the rotating column of cloud, and it grew thicker and more solid as it drew them in. And the horrible crowd in their stamping and their dancing began to chant, a wailing haunting melody that froze the hearts of all who heard it: “Did you hear their screaming '' ''Seven nights past '' ''did you hear their mournful keening '' ''Unending till the last? '' ''Know, then, the darkness has come '' ''See, then, what you have become…” '' “Blood of infants, innocent, helpless, aborted in millions from around the world, from forty years of ceaseless killing this essence I offer thee!” Up from the ground a scarlet mist, the mulched-up bodies of aborted children hoarded by magic for four decades, shot in a stream into the clouds. “Living Heart of living World, made by the Foe for bended Arda, that keeps its’ forces balanced and burning, this I now breach for your taking!” Cornello howled. A blade of pure angelic power shot from his hands to the glassy black floor, and down that channel reached the cloud, sucking, gorging, power draining, all life taking from the killed planet. ''“For darkness has no limits '' ''And darkness knows no limits '' ''Abiding, piercing, slaying '' ''It drives the light away '' ''Did you hear their weeping '' ''Seven nights past? '' ''did you see the darkness reaping '' ''The deeds that it has cast?” '' “Seven victims on seven thrones, these I offer for your rising!” the voice of the Dragon cascaded. “Take the Cypress, O Melkor; take the Red Ralph, O Melkor; take the Rogers for the Catholics, take Merissa for the witches, take Carlee for the Pagans; take the Lilac, greatest of all! Six of those who still see truly, are here for your resurrecting! Last of all take the Green Lady, Maricrondo the Living Star: her tremendous nature-power be the key that incarnates you!” The chanting rose to a frenzy. The stamping rose into an orgy. Faint shapes tossed in seas of madness in the chamber now in darkness. The black cloud, visible only by being so dark it made everything else grey, shot out seven arms into the hearts of the seven victims, motionless upon their thrones. Lightning crackled up the arms. Light glowed inside the smoke, white and red and faintest green. The victims sagged as their life was sucked from them. Their bodies slumped as their souls were dragged from them. Their bodies dissolved as they too were absorbed. For a moment Ronnie saw their faces, terribly brilliant; and then Chaos sucked them in, and they were consumed body and soul. '' '' ''“Darkness has a name '' ''And darkness has a face '' ''Darkness shall remain '' ''And bring the land to waste '' ''For shadows are falling '' ''And darkness has come, '' ''The nations it is mauling, '' ''And kings it has erased! '' ''Did you hear their mournful keening, '' ''Unending till the last?” '' Jets of red fire lanced out of the darkness. Slowly the rotating cloud condensed. Solid it grew. Bones and thews of iron blackness built them up inside the shadow. Armour rippled into being. A helm of hideous and majestic shape rose upon the head. The cloud was nearly gone. The last of it seeped into his mouth, and all was still. The eyes opened. Bright as searing flame they swept the crowd; but illuminated nothing. All fell on their faces, dragon and witch alike. Cornello raised his hands, a composer who has just executed a perfect work of art. “Lord we hail ye, God we name thee, Eru Almighty soon to be! We adore thee, O Christ, and we slave thee; for thou wert dead, and art alive! ''Aeva, aeva, Lord of Darkness, King of Chaos, Morgoth Returned, Melkor mighty!” chanted the Father of Dragons, and then he too fell down and adored. Slowly, stiffly, as if his joints were still unwieldly, the Lord of Chaos raised his hand. A hammer gleamed there, ancient, evil, burning with fire; a blasting power lay in its’ head: Grond the Hammer of Angband. At the voice of the Lord of the Darkness, the Sons of the Road wanted to die. Travel and Ronnie heard the voice that had mocked them in the Lost Caves. Lara heard the sneering stranger of her dream, and the one that had spoken through the mouth of Angar. Forest heard the voice of the Rider of the Darkness, who had haunted his dreams an endless year ago; a hundred years ago. To them the voice was of horrible recognition, the kind a man feels when he realizes he is in the power of his most implacable enemy. But to Bell and Brooke, who had never heard it before, it sounded with the weight of bottomless despair. '' “Who there stands, unbowed, unbending? Who caused them to stand before my resurrecting?” '' “My Lord,” Cornello said into the floor, “they are the Children of the Road, fell warriors who won here in our despite, whom I in my cruelty allowed to see their beloved ones consumed and their foe made incarnate in despite of all their power. In Time I hung them so they could not fight.” '' “I see defeat in their eyes. I see the salt seas of bitterest despair dripping down their hearts. Free them, that they may bow before me, and become my slaves.” '' “As you desire, my Master.” said Cornello. He rose to his knees and made an eerie gesture. The Children of the Road stumbled forward. '' “Do ye bow?” '' Ronnie Wendy lifted his head. A dreadful levity, grim as death, danced in his eyes. “No.” he said. Just like that the Children of the Road were gone. Travel had acted the second she was free. Cold air smote them. Soft snow, still several inches deep, rose around their sneakers. It was late at night. Before them stood the house of the Lanes. Back to Arheled